forty-eight hours
by autumn midnights
Summary: 'Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first year they'd chained up, and they tortured him pretty badly'. /Or, two days of hell and what happened after, as a teenager became a soldier. Canon-compliant, M for language/violence.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter._

_Content warnings for language and violence/torture._

* * *

He barely hesitated, joining up with the D.A. the second time around.

Michael Corner had had reservations the first time, mainly signing up only to stay within Ginny's good graces. At the time, he had still had doubts about the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the necessity of learning Defense. Two years later, those doubts were gone. The Wizarding world was effectively on fire. Everything was in chaos. This wasn't just a teenage rebellion anymore - this was war.

And then they were all in. The first D.A. had been much smaller, a select group of people who were friendly with Harry Potter and company, but the second time around, it drastically expanded. Everyone was angry - really, everyone was fucking _furious. _Their friends were gone, missing or in Azkaban or worse. Their safe space of Hogwarts had turned into Death Eater hell. They were worried about family, all communications censored and intercepted on both ends.

And all of this, on top of normal teenage fury and angst and rebellion? It was a perfect storm, really, and the D.A. swelled to dozens, and all eight of the remaining seventh-year Ravenclaws joined up.

Michael had been surprised at that, really. Kevin was a jokester who rarely took things seriously. Mandy barely spoke a word to most people. Su rarely focused on anything besides Quidditch. And Morag had previously always followed her parents' rule of staying neutral and not getting involved. If anything, he had been most surprised with her. She had changed this year, getting involved, and it had put a spark in her eyes that he had never seen before from her.

And he saw it again that day in March, fire burning in her eyes like a thousand suns as she stormed into the Ravenclaw common room a bit before seven. Morag threw herself into a chair near Michael, chestnut hair flying around her face. "They have a fucking _first year_," she said.

"The Carrows?" Michael stared. That was almost unheard-of. The younger students had been warned off messing with the Carrows very early, as tales of the older students who had gotten the Cruciatus for detention circulated throughout the school. There were still minor violations in other classes, of course, which would result in professors taking House points, but almost all of the students getting detention from the Carrows were D.A., and that was fourth-year and up.

"She's in the dungeon," Morag said. She was almost shaking in her anger; she looked ready to curse someone out.

"There's not much we can do," Michael said slowly. "If we broke her out - they'd just bring her right back tomorrow."

"The Room," Morag said. "Neville's always talked about that being a possible plan, if things get too bad. That someone could just stay up there. Could bring her to the Room, sneak food up, you know?"

"Does he know about her?" He knew she wasn't wrong. It wasn't a bad idea. It was risky as hell, of course, and probably not the brightest of plans, desperate as it was, but she was right in saying that hiding in the Room of Requirement had always been an option.

"No," Morag said. "I thought I should move quickly."

"You're not going alone," he said automatically. "Absolutely not. It hasn't even been that long since the last time you got detention."

"It's been over a month," she said defensively. "I'm perfectly fine and you know it." Her hand rose subconsciously to her collarbone, though, fingers trailing over a scar - one of a few, now - hidden beneath her robes.

"Yeah, all right, but you suck at Disillusionment Charms, and you can't deny that," Michael said. "I'm coming with."

"Your Disillusionment doesn't last forever either," Morag muttered under her breath as she stood up.

"Longer than yours." Michael briefly considered organizing the books and parchment strewn over the table in front of him, and then abandoned the idea. He'd deal with that when he got back. "Lead the way."

They headed out. Morag loped along, Michael matching her stride. She was a tall girl, and they were close to the same height. Morag walked with a purposeful gait; she even looked like she was on a mission, and Michael was glad for the relative lack of people in the corridors. He didn't bother with Disillusionment yet, though. Morag was right - his Disillusionment Charm didn't last forever, and at the moment they weren't breaking any rules. It would be better to wait until they were in the dungeons, first year in hand, so that it didn't fade out at an inopportune time - like while they were bringing the first year up to the Room, for instance.

Part of him still couldn't believe they were actually doing this. It was a dumb, foolhardy, Gryffindor plan, if you could even call it a plan - but he made no move to turn around or convince Morag to do the same. They were in it now. Morag had given up neutrality in favor of making a difference, seventeen years' worth of repression boiling up like a fucking volcano, and yet again Michael found himself dragged into the midst of things by a girl on fire. But this time the girl was like a sister, not a lover, and the stakes were higher, because Unforgivables trumped Blood Quills any day, but still he didn't walk away.

They drew their wands once they reached the dungeons, although Michael still wasn't entirely sure what the actual plan was if they did come upon somebody. Ideally, nobody would be there. The Carrows preferred to give detentions in the late afternoon, after classes were finished but before everyone ate. Su was convinced the timing was due to the fact that Cruciating someone who had just eaten dinner was a terrible idea that would result in vomit. Her theory made sense, although it was a mental image that Michael did not particularly like having in his mind.

All of the dungeons were empty except one. The girl chained to the wall was small - _eleven years old, _Michael thought sharply. She shrank back against the wall when she saw them. He didn't recognize her. Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, then - he knew most of the kids in his own House by sight if not by name.

"We're gonna get you out of here," Morag said softly. She moved over to the chains, murmuring incantations softly so that they fell away, clanking to the floor with more noise than Michael might have hoped for.

"This'll feel weird," Michael said, moving over to the girls, and then he heard clumping footsteps from down the corridor. He cast the Disillusionment Charm on the girl, his heart pounding out of his chest.

"Hurry!" Morag said.

He cast the spell on Morag, and he caught a shadow of her arm moving, as though she was trying to cast it on him - he raised his own arm to cast the spell on himself -

Alecto Carrow burst through the door.

He froze, wand still half-raised. She Disarmed him, his wand clattering across the floor to land at her feet; she tapped it threateningly with the toe of her shoe. "Wha' do we have here?" she said.

She didn't seem to notice Morag or the girl. Disillusionment wasn't full invisibility, but in dim lighting like the dungeons, it was pretty effective; regardless, Michael wanted them out of the room. He was caught - and this would be a hell of a detention, no doubt about that - but if he could save Morag and the first year from the same fate, then he would.

"_GO!" _he half-shouted, and charged Alecto.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw slipping shadows, rippling air, as Morag and the first year moved from their position in the shadows, heading towards the door. Alecto didn't notice; her attention was on Michael, and his shout had been close enough to a battle-cry that she might not have even registered that it was directed toward other people in the room. Thank Merlin the Carrows weren't the brightest of people.

Her spell flung him backwards, crashing against the opposite wall, the same stone to which the first year had been chained only minutes before. Stars danced in front of his eyes as he sank to the ground, disoriented. She picked up his wand and stowed it in the pocket of her robes. "Thought Ravenclaws were s'posed to be the smart ones," she said. "Boy, what you've done is stupid."

_You're stupid. _The immature response was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. Sassing Alecto, as tempting though it was, would probably just add more days of detention to his punishment, and he knew it would already be a long one. He kept his mouth shut.

"Where's the girl?" Alecto said. Her beady eyes flashed dangerously. "Where'd you send her?"

Michael stared at the ceiling, watching a drop of moisture condense on the stone and fall. The Carrows didn't know about the Room of Requirement. The D.A. had been very good about keeping that a secret; they left in pairs or alone, always staggered, so that there wasn't an influx of people in any one corridor. Nobody had given up the Room, even when the Carrows got nosy about D.A. activities and questioned whatever unlucky soul had ended up in detention.

"_Crucio!_"

It no longer came as a surprise. There was no getting used to it, and there never would be, but it was no longer unexpected. He bit back a scream, his back arching upward as the agony tore through every fiber of his being. Every thought was obliterated - there was nothing but the pain. And then, as always, it was over - and he couldn't say how long it had been, because seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours, and all sense of time was gone.

"I _said, _where'd the girl go?"

_'Up your arse' _sounded like a very good response, and he was even more tempted to give her lip now than he had been minutes (seconds?) previously, but he refrained. She lashed out, another dose of the Cruciatus; his perception of time was shot to hell, but he could gather that it was longer than the first time, and afterward he was panting, gasping for breath.

He rolled onto his side, trying to control his breathing. A beetle crawled across the floor near his arm; he watched it move, making its slow little way across the dungeon-turned-torture-chamber. Heading towards freedom, past his legs, towards the door - and then Alecto's foot came down, and in the silence he could hear the crack of its shell as she shifted her weight to that leg.

She hissed another spell, one he didn't recognize, and a line of liquid fire cracked across his back, splitting his robes. He gasped in both surprise and pain, his fingers reaching, scrabbling for the area. The skin felt raised, tender, irritated. "Cruciatus isn't the only thing I can do to you," Alecto hissed, her voice silky smooth. "You won't talk under that, I got other methods." She raised her wand again; Michael jerked his hand away as the next welt crisscrossed over the first one, and he curled into a ball.

He lost count somewhere after five, but kept his mouth shut after every time, when she asked - again and again - where he had sent the first year, where she was hiding, if anyone else was there. _She can't make me talk. She doesn't care enough to use Veritaserum or some shit like that. This is a punishment, not a true __interrogation. If she was smart, she would know this isn't even an effective way of getting information. _

Deep breaths - in, out, in, out. His back throbbed. He touched it again, and his fingers came away slightly damp with blood; she had broken the skin several times, going back over the older wounds with newer ones. His muscles still ached from the Cruciatus.

Alecto stared at him. "You're not done," she said coolly. And then she left, slamming the door behind her; he could hear it click shut and lock with a harsh finality.

His heart pounded in his chest, matching the rhythm of the throbbing welts on his back. Nobody had been kept overnight before. They had always been able to trudge back to their common room hours before curfew, trembling and exhausted but comforted by the knowledge that they were safe, at least for a little while. Even when people had received a few days of detention, that always meant a brief period spent in the dungeons each afternoon, but otherwise a normal schedule, a normal day. That had happened to Morag - she had four days in a row of reporting down to the dungeons at three-thirty exactly, and returning to the Ravenclaw common room an hour later, pale and drawn but at least _there. _He wasn't there - what would she think when he didn't return?

Michael tried to pull himself to a standing position, using the wall as support, but his head swam and black spots danced before his eyes. He half-sat, half-collapsed against the wall, putting his head between his knees until he felt marginally better. He hadn't felt that dizzy and wobbly since the end of fifth year, getting absolutely plastered on Firewhiskey Kevin had liberated from the back of the Hog's Head.

Much better circumstances then, naturally. In fact, circumstances that he very much wanted to repeat after this; a glass of Firewhiskey - or several glasses - sounded excellent. Hell, it would even take the edge off of the remaining pain. Admittedly, it would make him even less capable of standing, but that felt like a very minor detail at the moment.

Some time passed. He couldn't tell whether or not curfew had arrived; the dungeons were always dim at night regardless, and the sun set early enough that there wasn't very much of a difference between seven or nine or eleven at night.

At some point, he fell into a troubled sleep. The cold stone floor would have been uncomfortable at the best of times; coupled with the stinging marks on his back and the dull ache of the rest of his body, it made a sound sleep impossible. At the same time, he was exhausted enough that staying awake through the night was equally unlikely; this combination resulted in him dozing off, and then startling awake from either pain or cold, and then repeating the process for several hours.

When he woke up properly, it was officially morning; the room was bright enough that the sun was surely fully up. Which, just like the night before, was only slightly helpful at narrowing down the time. He guessed that it was sometime after seven o'clock. His stomach growled.

The sound of the door lock alerted him, and he flinched. The door creaked open, and he had the instinctual urge to scurry against the far wall, as though putting an extra three meters of space between him and the Carrows would really make a difference - but it wasn't the Carrows at all.

Daphne Greengrass stepped through the door, carrying a metal cup. Water sloshed over the top and splashed on the floor. Michael stared at her as she set the cup down on the floor. "Are you - can I leave?"

Daphne sighed. "No," she said. "I'm not even supposed to be bringing you anything, but the Carrows aren't exactly the smartest, so dehydration doesn't really come to mind for them. Drink that, I'm taking the cup back when you're done."

A brief satisfying mental image, of throwing the cup at Alecto Carrow's head, came to Michael's mind. He was vaguely surprised to hear Daphne insulting the Carrows, even if saying they 'weren't the smartest' was a much tamer insult than the things the D.A. hurled around. It was true, though, that she never seemed to have the same glee in Dark Arts or Muggle Studies as people like Crabbe and Goyle; she kept relatively quiet, and had never antagonized the Carrows, but she never seemed to actively support them either. He picked up the cup and took a sip; the water felt amazing sliding down his parched throat. "Do you agree with them? That I should be here?"

Her mouth pressed in a thin line. "Don't start," she said. "I'm not getting involved. In anything."

"Do you at least know _why_ I'm here?" Michael pressed, emboldened. "There was a first year - a bloody _kid-_"

She did at least look uncomfortable at that, and he took another sip of water. She sighed again. "Look," she said. "I'm not saying I agree with everything that they do. I just have no desire to end up on the receiving end, so I won't go against them either. I'm staying out of it all. It's only a few more months, and then we can all get out of here. That's all I want."

He drank some more from the cup, grateful that she had stopped by with the water; she made a good point regarding dehydration. He couldn't imagine the Carrows giving him anything. The water was only further emphasizing the fact that he was hungry, but that wasn't nearly as much of a pressing need. When the boys complained about needing snacks for study sessions, Padma had always brought up the fact that the human body could last weeks without food.

"What time is it?" he asked.

She looked relieved at the neutral question. "A little after eight," she said.

_So I've been down here over twelve hours. _That was a record. Oh, the D.A. would hear about this, for sure, if they hadn't already. There was occasional bravado there, for sure - one-upping each other with the amount of days that they had detention, trading what insults they had shot at the Carrows in between curses. Sometimes taking it lightly was the only way to cope with the horror.

His stomach growled, reminding him once more that he hadn't eaten since last night's meal. Normally, by now, he would be sitting in the Great Hall with the rest of the Ravenclaws, scarfing down eggs and sausage and toast; the food was one of the few things that hadn't been affected by the Carrows' reign, just like the appetite of a seventeen-year-old boy. He drained the cup of water. It only marginally helped.

He pushed himself to his feet to hand the cup back to Daphne. His back protested, the raw skin complaining of the sudden movement and stretch, but his legs supported his weight. Daphne's hand hovered over her wand as she took the cup back from him, and he had a fleeting moment of consideration - overpowering her, grabbing her wand, and getting the hell out - before she whirled and vanished, the door locking shut behind her. He plodded over to it anyway, testing the lock, but it remained firm. Carrow still had his wand. He wasn't going anywhere.

There was a bucket in the corner, pushed back against the wall, and he used it to relieve himself, moving away from it when he was done. Apart from that, there was nothing - just stone walls, the chains, and the cold floor, not even a small window; the only light came from the corridor, and even that was relatively meager. The seconds, minutes, ticked by. He briefly paced, stretched, but tired quickly and had to sit back down, propping himself against one of the walls.

There was nothing to do but think. And honestly, that was the last thing that he wanted to do. There was relief in keeping busy; the professors were still assigning NEWT-level amounts of homework, after all, and finishing it typically kept Michael up until the wee hours of the morning, at which time he had no choice but to fall asleep, sometimes still in his robes with parchment spread out around him. D.A. meetings were shortly after dinner and usually at least one hour, if not a few hours, long, and then leaving the Room of Requirement was always a slow process to avoid detection - and then it was homework, and the cycle repeated again.

He couldn't remember the last time he had just sat. It wasn't fun, having time to mull over everything. He thought of the first year; hopefully, she was safe in the Room of Requirement, but even that was a temporary fix. What would they do when the summer holidays came? What would happen to her then? Getting her off the grounds was one thing - they could probably get away with a Disillusionment Charm to get her on the train - but there was no way the Carrows would just let her return for second year like nothing had changed.

He hoped Morag had gotten back to the Ravenclaw common room safely. He worried about her, more than he wanted to admit sometimes. She had been so reserved, so cautious, before this year; she had raised an eyebrow when he, Anthony, Terry, and Padma had joined the first incarnation of the D.A., saying they were blowing things out of proportion. But this year had sparked something in her, making her reckless like a Gryffindor. Her wild jaunt down here to rescue the first year without a real plan had proved that much. She had already had a few detentions, but instead of cowering her, it just seemed to increase her fury.

_I could have saved myself instead, _he thought, and instantly hated himself for it. But it was true. It would have been simple to Disillusion himself instead, let Morag be the one to take the fall - and a small part of him thought it would have only been fair, since this had been her plan to begin with. Sure, he had inserted himself into it, insisted on coming along, but he never would have known about the girl or done anything if it weren't for her.

_It's her fault, _that tiny arsehole part of his brain insisted, but he pushed the thought away, almost scoffing out loud. He was the one who had decided to Disillusion her instead of himself; if anyone was to blame, it was the chivalrous side of him. He had insisted on coming along, he had insisted on saving her and the girl before himself. She didn't decide that for him.

He remembered the last time she had gotten detention. A few of them had, that time. Amycus was trying to get the class to use the Killing Curse on some spiders, and a large portion of the class had gotten disruptive. He hadn't given the whole class detention, but Morag, Lavender Brown, Hannah Abbott, and Seamus Finnegan had been in the front row that day, and his anger was focused on them.

She had come back to the Ravenclaw common room with the shoulders of her robes ripped, soaked through with blood from Amycus using _Diffindo _to cut her. Anthony had helped patch her up, and Michael remembered the bile, the rage rising in his throat when he had seen her return like that. He wondered what he would be doing now, if the roles were reversed, if she had been down here for twelve hours and he was up in the common room with the others. He felt sick at the thought.

He remembered Terry looking at him and saying, "She's gonna be fine, you know," because his hands were clenched into fists and he wanted nothing more than to punch Amycus out. He remembered thinking Terry was being ridiculous. Was any of them ever going to be truly fine again?

The door creaked open again, and his heart pounded, frantically wishing for the return of Daphne with water or food, a neutral face if not a friendly one, but there was no such luck. Amycus Carrow walked in, Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him, both looking uncomfortably eager. Michael shuddered, drawing his knees up toward his chest as though he could burrow through the wall behind him if he pushed himself against it enough.

"Wanted more practice," Amycus said roughly. "Have at 'im, boys."

Michael moaned, even before the first curse struck him; he couldn't even say which one of them had cast it. The agony swallowed him up again. He dimly registered that Alecto's curses had been stronger, but it wasn't a vast difference. _It's like comparing an Outstanding to an Exceeds Expectations, _he thought dumbly when the Slytherin lifted the curse, and he almost felt hysterical giggles bubbling up at the ridiculousness of the thought.

Again, again, again. Back and forth. They took turns. He couldn't tell the difference between Crabbe and Goyle; they seemed to be at almost exactly the same strength. _How fucking ridiculous is it to be ranking the strength of the Unforgivable Curses I'm experiencing? _ The thought almost set him off into hysteria.

Even at less power than Alecto - or less practice, he supposed - it was still agonizing, burning fire coursing up and down his limbs, his torso, all over. He panted for breath. After the fifth - or sixth, he was having trouble keeping track - curse, the meager contents of his stomach came up. He couldn't bring himself up to sitting, even to all fours, to move away from the puddle, and he ended up rolling over a few times until he was closer to the middle of the room. That, apparently, was hilarious to Crabbe and Goyle, and he got a few moments to breathe as they guffawed. Even Amycus was snorting with laughter. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to control his breathing and his racing heart, and then one of them recovered enough to curse him again, and he was blinded with pain.

(He lost track of the number of curses completely, after that.)

And then they left, with him laying on his back in the middle of the dungeon floor. He twitched his fingers, watching the tips move, to make sure he still could. His mind felt fried, just like his muscles, nerve endings overworked from the constant stimulation of pain.

_I'm gonna die here, _he thought. _I'm gonna die here. This is it. _Never to do any of the things he wanted to do. He had wanted nothing more than to work in the Department of Mysteries - Ravenclaw curiosity, after all, knew no bounds, and he had the marks to be a contending applicant. He had pressed Luna Lovegood for information about it after she and a few others had fought Death Eaters there nearly two years previously, and the small nuggets of information she had passed along had only incited his curiosity further. Now, he'd never get to see it.

He thought of girls - of Ginny, of Cho. _I have the same taste in girls as the fucking Boy-Who-Lived, _he thought, and another unbidden crazy laugh threatened to rise. His few dates with Mandy, back in third year when Hogsmeade was new and shiny to them, and Su had let slip that Mandy fancied him. That hadn't lasted, or even gone anywhere beyond kissing, but they had broken it off casually and amicably as fourteen-year-olds can. Ginny had been after that, thanks to the Yule Ball; that had been fun. They were both young and dumb and inexperienced, but she was a spitfire and they had had a good time until a stupid Quidditch fight.

And then Cho had her heart broken by Harry Potter, and she just wanted someone to comfort her, and Michael wasn't great at comfort but he was good with girls, and the physical chemistry was there even if she was a little too emotional sometimes. Everything was stressful and sometimes a good lay was the best way to cast all the worries aside. But then she had finished Hogwarts, and he had heard from her a couple times, but nothing was the same anymore.

This year was just devoid of romance, it seemed. He had hooked up with Vicky Frobisher, but that wasn't saying much, because Vicky had a reputation this year - "_It's her coping mechanism, I think," _Padma had said. She seemed like a nice enough girl, and the release had been needed - for both of them, it seemed - but she had never been interested in anything beyond the occasional quick hookup.

_I'll never even do that again, _he thought. _Because I'm going to die in this stupid room. Fuck the Carrows. Fuck it all._

He tried sitting up, for no other reason but to see if he could, but even that small motion was exhausting. He rolled onto his side, his aching muscles protesting as he pushed himself up with his hands. The cool floor was nice on his palms, the pleasant sensation welcome after the hell of the Cruciatus.

Amycus and the Slytherin boys hadn't even asked him about the first year, he realized; they were just torturing him for the sheer fun of it, just because they could. Alecto had had a purpose - she was angry and wanted to punish him, of course, but hers had been interrogation just as much as it had been a punishment. Crabbe and Goyle didn't want anything beyond additional practice. He tried to imagine being so callous as to want to practice the Unforgivable Curses on a person for no reason but pleasure; the very thought made him shudder. They had always been mean, but there was a big difference between schoolyard bullying and this.

Dimly, he wondered again what time it was. The hunger from this morning had subsided, eclipsed by the effects of the repeated curses. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, and he supposed that hunger probably contributed to that, but his stomach roiled at the thought of a large meal. His throat burned with thirst, and he longed for the return of Daphne with some water.

He thought of his bed in the dormitory. That sounded like heaven, right about then; the warm duvet covering him, the soft, cool pillows beneath his head, his body sinking slightly into the mattress in just the right way. His bed, and a glass of water. That would be perfect. And maybe, when his stomach calmed down, some Firewhiskey or Pain-killing Potion to take the edge off.

The Carrows had confiscated Pomfrey's stash of Pain-killing Potion, insisting that it was not allowed to be used for detention-related problems. They had allowed her to give some to a second year who had tripped down the stairs and sprained an ankle, but they would never let her use any for Michael. Maybe Kevin still had some of that Firewhiskey left. He had brought a couple bottles in his trunk, after Christmas holidays.

_Yeah, why don't I go ask him for some? _he thought, his mind blanking for a couple seconds before he remembered that he was still trapped in the dungeons. Was the door locked? He hadn't checked this time, hadn't remembered hearing whether or not it clicked shut - he hadn't been paying attention.

He tried standing, swayed, sat back down. He had never felt so lightheaded; even last night didn't compare. The distance between him and the door seemed like an immeasurable distance. Logically, he knew it was only a few meters, but that logical part of his brain was a distant thing now. A few meters seemed impossible; he tried to visualize himself walking it, and ended up picturing himself falling flat on his face.

Michael laid back down. _Just a few minutes, _he thought, and passed out.

It was much later when he awoke; he could tell that much from how dim the room was. He felt a pang of hunger once more, matching the dryness of his throat, although neither of these things truly compared to the aches all over his body. His back twitched; it had long since stopped bleeding, but even without seeing it he could tell the skin was still raw and angry. His legs felt wobbly, like he had run several kilometers. The only thing that felt marginally better was his head.

He maneuvered over to the wall, using it to support himself as he stood up. Keeping one hand on the wall, he took tentative steps forward, towards the door. His legs threatened to collapse under him more than once, and he had to pause, breathing slow and even, but the meters between him and the door receded until finally he was standing in front of it. He pushed on the door, not expecting anything to happen -

It swung outward. Amycus, Crabbe, and Goyle had forgotten to lock it behind them. It wasn't shocking; most people only spent an hour or so down there, and then were released at the end of it. And of course, none of them were particularly bright. Even if he was meant to be kept down there for longer, it had slipped their minds, so used to allowing people out after one session. He grabbed the doorframe, using it to move himself into the corridor. Slow, down the corridor, rounding the corner -

He came face to face with Theodore Nott, who instantly drew his wand. "What the hell are you doing?" Theodore said, his dark eyes flashing.

"Er, leaving," Michael said. His voice sounded thin and reedy in his ears.

"Alecto said-" Theodore sighed in annoyance. "Oh, for fuck's sake, did those idiots really forget to lock the door when they were done?"

"_I'm _done," Michael said. "You lot made your point. It's been a full day." He took a step forward, and Theodore pointed the wand at him.

"Oh, no," he said. "Alecto said you weren't done until she allowed it. And I'm not about to be the moron who let you slip by. Turn around. You're going back."

"_Theo." _His voice came out almost as a whine. "Come on, man. We studied Potions together last year."

Theodore stared, unblinking. "Yes. And? You really think that because I found you more competent than those idiot Gryffindors in our class, that means I'm going to be responsible for directly going against the Carrows' orders? I'm not a bloody moron."

"They're going to kill me," Michael moaned.

"Don't be an idiot, Corner," Theodore said. "They're under express orders not to kill any of the students, and that comes directly from the Dark Lord himself. You'll survive. They wouldn't let anything serious happen."

"Anything serious?" Michael's voice cracked, and he realized how hoarse he sounded, as well. "I don't know how many goddamn times I've been Cruciated, Nott, I think that counts as _serious._"

"You're gonna be able to add another one to that number if you don't start walking back," Theodore said. "I mean it, Corner."

He lifted his wand, and Michael turned around. He hesitated before actually walking, and Theodore prodded at his back with the wand; it jabbed right in the middle of one of the welts from Alecto's curse, and Michael jolted, hissing in pain, his balance disrupted, nearly falling over as a result. "I can't believe you're fine with all of this," Michael said.

"And I thought you were smarter than this," he responded.

Michael walked slowly, still supporting himself along the wall as he turned back into the dungeon corridor. He didn't have a response to that. Of course there was a certain degree of truth to what Theodore was saying. The most logical thing to do this year would have been to shut up and keep his head down. He realized that. They all did. But doing that now was easier said than done. The Muggle-borns were gone, on the run, in hiding, or caught by Snatchers and thrown into Azkaban, rounded up like animals and forced into the awful conditions of that hellhole just for the circumstances of their birth. Lisa and Stephen were Muggle-born; they had been on the run since August, no word since. And Hogwarts itself - with Amycus forcing them to practice Unforgivables on animals, Alecto going off on bigoted rants in Muggle Studies...there was no way to sit back, not with all of this shit.

Theodore forced him back inside the dungeon, and this time Michael heard the lock click behind him. He sank back against the wall.

It wasn't Morag's fault. Any trace of blame he had felt for her washed away in one instant. Hell, it wasn't even his own fault for getting himself into this situation. He had just been reacting. So had Morag. All blame for this, all responsibility, lay in the hands of the Carrows, and You-Know-Who beyond them.

And Fudge, for being a blind idiot and not seeing the danger that had arrived with the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Hell, the entire Wizarding population of the United Kingdom had a role in this, for outcasting Harry Potter and not believing him until nearly a year later. If they had opened their eyes, if they had put their support behind the correct person, if they had been _prepared, _maybe none of this would have happened. You-Know-Who and his followers wouldn't have been able to seize control. The Muggle-born Registration Commission wouldn't have been established, Hogwarts wouldn't be run by Death Eaters -

And things could be normal. He wanted nothing more than normalcy. Staying up until the wee hours squinting at NEWT-level books with the other Ravenclaws, talking about how they couldn't believe they only had a few months left of school. He wanted that, more than anything.

Not long after, Amycus returned, with Millicent Bulstrode and a sixth-year Slytherin whose name slipped Michael's mind. He wondered if Theodore had told the Carrows about his half-arsed escape attempt.

"Time for practice," Amycus said coldly.

Tears rolled down Michael's cheeks, and this time as they cast the Cruciatus, he begged and pleaded for them to stop, for mercy, for release, for them to kill him - anything to make it end. They paid him no mind, just steadily alternated, with Amycus taking a few turns as well, back and forth, perfecting their creation of agony.

He blacked out as soon as they were done, letting himself go into blissful nothingness.

Morning came, at some point, and with it the return of Daphne Greengrass, with another cup of water. Michael propped his head up on his elbow but couldn't bring himself to rise any further than that. She set it directly next to him. Her eyes seemed a little softer, kinder, than yesterday. "You all right?" she said after a moment. He carefully brought the cup to his lips. The water was ice-cold; it felt amazing. He sipped slowly, carefully, not wanting to choke on the water.

"Dumb question," he said.

"Sorry." He thought she might actually mean it. "Theo told me about yesterday," she said, after a moment. Her face was slightly pink beneath her blonde locks. "It's nothing personal, you know. It's just survival."

"I know one thing that isn't surviving," Michael said, "and that's the consciences of you lot." His voice was raspy. He wasn't sure if it was from the lack of water since the previous morning, or the begging and screaming of last night. Probably both factored in.

Daphne sighed, closed her eyes for a moment, glanced up at the ceiling, before finally meeting Michael's gaze again. "I don't sleep," she said.

"Join the fucking club."

She crossed her arms around herself. "I'm not going to apologize for being scared of the Cruciatus, Corner," she said. "All I'm doing here is saving my own arse, and my sister's. It's not like I'm joining up with the goddamn Death Eaters." She dropped her voice on the last sentence. "Staying out of it doesn't mean I support everything."

Michael sipped again. There was a pause. "What do you mean, you don't sleep?"

"My sister scares the hell out of me," she said. "She hates this, all of it. And she's been more vocal about it than I feel comfortable with, and I'm terrified something's going to happen to her."

"Oh, you don't want her to end up like me?" Michael said sardonically.

"You asked, I answered."

He drained the rest of the cup. "Tell your sister to keep fighting the good fight," he said, tossing the cup back. The effort of throwing it caused bolts of twitching pain up and down his arm. He stopped propping himself up, instead laying on his back on the floor. "And tell Nott to shove it for me, would you?"

"Good luck, Corner," Daphne said, and locked the door behind her.

_This was life now_, Michael thought dimly. Antagonizing Daphne Greengrass, who was little more than a casual acquaintance before this. Admittedly, she was the only person who had shown him any kindness since his imprisonment down here, but he couldn't help but needle her. She deserved to feel badly for not taking a stand. He didn't respect neutrality, not anymore.

It had been one thing back in fifth year. Arguably, even he had only joined the D.A. to placate Ginny, rather than any real conviction regarding Harry Potter's claim. Because back then, it was different; back then, Harry's claims had been just that - claims. Only Harry had witnessed You-Know-Who's return, only Harry was prophesying the darkness they were apparently headed towards. There was no proof.

Now, they were in the thick of it. There was no question about it, no gray area anymore, no middle ground. It was black and white, good and evil, us and them. The lines had been drawn, the sides had been chosen.

And he realized, with a start, that his death felt imminent. Nott was probably right, that the Carrows wouldn't kill him here in the dungeon - that thought had come and gone, fading from his mind much more slowly than it had appeared. But soon, he would be done with Hogwarts. The D.A.'s resistance was positively cushy compared to the adult resistance outside. There, it was completely no-holds-barred. There, they wouldn't just stop at torture; the Death Eaters would kill him, plain and simple.

Of course he was going to join up with the real resistance the moment he stepped outside the Hogwarts grounds, and of course he would be completely out of his league. Even training with the D.A. for the better part of a year suddenly felt like nothing. He would be outmatched, unprepared - and that would be the end of him. He knew it just as certainly as he knew that the Carrows were going to return for another round with him. He would survive this, Nott was right. But he wouldn't survive that much longer. He wouldn't see the end of 1998.

_As long as I go out with a bang, _he thought. _As long as I take a few of them down with me, I'm ready._

He remembered a conversation he had had with Morag, shortly after returning from Christmas holidays. They were the last ones left in the common room, finishing up a Charms essay due the following afternoon. It was well past midnight.

"Would you do it back?" Morag had asked, seemingly out of nowhere, but nothing was truly out of nowhere, not anymore. "If you had the chance. Would you curse them back?"

"With Unforgivables?" Michael said neutrally.

"Yeah." She twisted her quill between her fingers. "I think I would. I think I could use them, if it was that kind of situation."

Michael shrugged. "If I was dueling a Death Eater? Yeah, I mean, I don't think I'd necessarily just go for an Impediment Jinx or shit like that."

"I'm so angry," Morag said. "Carrow says you have to really mean it. And when we're in Dark Arts, it's not like I really want to hurt the fucking spider or rat or whatever he's got. So it's not that strong. But if one of them was on the other end of my wand? I'm so goddamn furious all the time, Michael. I hate them. I hate them enough for that."

He nodded. She looked at him out of the curtain of her hair, almost seeming cowed after her revelation.

"Does that make me Dark?" she whispered after a beat.

"No," Michael said. There wasn't any hesitation. "Makes you a soldier." He quirked a smile. "Maybe you'll lead the fucking resistance when we're out of here."

"I'm not a leader," Morag said.

"Are you going to try and join up? When we finish?" The Charms essay was forgotten now. He pulled his legs up on the chair. "I am."

She glanced up at him, almost shocked. "What happened to the Department of Mysteries?" she said. "Being an Unspeakable?"

"The Ministry's in tatters," Michael said. "What good would that do? Besides, I don't want to work for them while all of this is going on. Even if I'm hidden away in the Department of Mysteries, it's implicit support. I'm not applying to the Ministry until all of this is over. If all of this is ever over." He sighed. "And I don't think - after this year, I really don't think I could just settle down and go to work."

"Hear, hear," Morag said. "Where do we send in our applications for the resistance?"

Michael laughed. "We'll find a way," he said.

He thought of that conversation now, trapped in the dungeon months later. He allowed himself to visualize him and Morag, fighting side by side. Why, together they'd be a goddamn force to be reckoned with, wouldn't they?

_I love her, _he thought dimly, the realization coming to him from far away. _Not like that. I don't want to marry her, or fuck her, but I love her. I think she's my best friend - more than Terry or Anthony now, sorry blokes. _He wasn't even sure when that had happened - this year, sometime, probably? All of the Ravenclaws had always been close - there were best friendships within them, of course, but as a whole the ten of them formed a good group. But something had shifted this year, and he had grown closer and closer to Morag.

In his delirium, he wanted nothing more than to tell her that. _You're my best friend, _he thought again. _That's why it wasn't even a hesitation, saving you instead. _He hadn't _had _to - she could take this just as well as he could, he fully realized that - but he had anyway.

And this time, it was Alecto who returned. Alone. Some time later. It was approaching two days in there; he had no sense of what time it was, now. Had minutes elapsed since Daphne's visit, or hours? It was impossible to tell.

"You gonna tell me where that girl is?" Alecto said, drawing her wand.

"Up. Your. Arse." And Michael spat on the ground with the last vestiges of his strength.

She hissed a spell; he expected the Cruciatus, but instead, the air rushed from his lungs. He tried to suck in a breath, but couldn't; it was as though something was trapping the air before it could reach his nose, his mouth. He couldn't breathe. He used to be able to hold his breath for nearly a minute - he went swimming a lot as a kid, and it had been a neat trick, to disappear under the water for that long - but it had been years since he tried that kind of thing. Not to mention, panic was overtaking him. Holding his breath, he was in control. This was completely different - this was goddamn terrifying. He was aware that he was moving his mouth, but no sound was coming out.

Black spots danced before his eyes again, and if he hadn't been already laying down, he was sure that he would have collapsed. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the ground. This was it, this was death -

And then she released the spell, and he gasped a deep breath, coughing heavily.

She stood over him, and drew back her leg, and he tried to roll away but she kicked him in the side. He heard the crack a fraction of a second before he felt it, the searing pain as at least one rib broke. Alecto was wearing some kind of heavy boot, and it only served to amplify the damage. He moaned, his hand cupping his side gingerly.

"Where is she?" Alecto's voice sounded far away and distant. He didn't respond. He wasn't even sure he was capable of a coherent sentence at this point, even if he had wanted to give in.

_Ineffective, _he thought, possibly murmuring the word. _Bad way to get information._

"What?" Alecto snarled.

"You're inefficient," he muttered blearily, slipping in and out of consciousness. Whether she heard him or not, he couldn't say. She hit him with the Cruciatus again. He registered trying to avoid moving too much, a small part of him realizing that thrashing around would be incredibly harmful to his ribs, and he didn't want to increase the chance of puncturing his lung. Staying still under the Cruciatus was no small feat, however, and the pain in his rib seemed amplified by the spell, as if the blazing inferno of the curse had partially concentrated in his side.

His eyes drooped when she released the curse. He was having a difficult time staying awake. Again, again, once more, agony - again, the fight to remain as still as possible as liquid fire raced through his every nerve. He screamed, his voice cracking and shattering.

"You're done," she whispered. "Don' make me regret lettin' you out," she hissed, and through his cracked eyelids he could see her leave the door open as she left, throwing his wand on the floor near him, and then he blacked out, still on the cold dungeon floor.

* * *

When he came to, he realized that at some point, he had been moved. Either that, or he was waking up in the afterlife, but the fact that every part of his body still ached suggested the first option was more realistic.

Opening his eyes more fully, he made out the Ravenclaw banners, the books - this was the common room, and he was on a sofa which had been pulled all the way to the corner, out of the way. A duvet partially covered him. He blinked, and saw Padma, making her way over.

"Oh, Michael, thank Merlin, you're awake!" A smile of relief broke out across her face. "The others are eating right now, they should be up here soon. We tried to make you comfortable."

"Wha' happened?" he whispered.

"You were down there for two full days," Padma said. "It's a little past seven now. Alecto finished up with you not that long ago. Daphne Greengrass found me in the library and told me that people had better come and get you, because you were in no shape to walk up seven flights of stairs. Anthony, Terry, and I levitated you up here. Do you remember any of that?"

"I remember detention." He couldn't form much more than a whisper. Screaming had worn out his voice. "Last thing I knew, I was down there."

"We tried getting some Pain-killing Potion," Padma said. "Anthony worked on your rib for a bit, says that should be completely mended within the week, but the Carrows refused to let us have anything for the pain. Fay Dunbar and Susan Bones are in the Room of Requirement, trying to brew some."

"The D.A.?" Michael couldn't form the full question.

"They all know, yeah. Seamus and Neville were considering trying to bust you out, but Alecto alerted all the Slytherins, and it's been impossible to get down there. Su and I practically had to take shifts keeping an eye on Morag, we thought she was going to rush down there so many times."

"She's fine?"

"I mean, worried as hell and pissed off, but yeah. She brought Rosemarie - that's the first year - to the Room of Requirement, and then came back here. They made it out safely."

"Thank Merlin," Michael breathed.

"Are you-" Padma took a deep breath. "I don't want to ask 'are you all right?' because I know what a stupid question that is, but is there anything you need right now? Anything I can get you?"

He tried clearing his throat. That had no effect. "Water. A bit of food, maybe? Kevin's Firewhiskey, if that's still a thing."

"I'll ask him about that one when he gets back. Give me a minute, I have some snacks in the dormitory."

She disappeared up the steps to the girls' dorm, and at that moment the common room door swung open and Morag stepped inside. She crossed the meters between them in a matter of two seconds, practically sliding to a stop and perching on the floor beside Michael's head.

"Oh, Merlin," she said. "You're here."

"Made it," he whispered.

"Two. Fucking. Days." She shook her head. "I should have stayed."

"And dueled Alecto Carrow? Don't be ridiculous."

"It was my plan," Morag said. "Or lack thereof. It's my fault, and I'm so sorry for dragging you into this. I should have just run down there, got Rosemarie by myself-"

"Stop. You're not responsible for this. At all." It was hard to put forth the amount of conviction he truly felt, since his voice still wasn't up to par, but he met Morag's gaze openly, trying to communicate as best he could. "I swear. You're fine."

"It should have been me." She leaned against the sofa.

"It should have been no one," Michael said. "They're the ones to blame. For everything."

The next morning, he went back to class. Part of it was necessity - he was sure that if he missed one of the Carrows' classes, they'd jump at the chance to throw him in the dungeon for another detention - but the rest was stubbornness.

The other professors were lenient; every single one of them offered him an extension on all current assignments, and even McGonagall told him she wouldn't have done a damn thing if he had been absent that day.

The others took turns carrying his bag, since even supporting his own weight was difficult. He walked slowly between classrooms, either sticking close to the wall or leaning on one of the other Ravenclaws for support. Concentrating was near-impossible, and his notes were scattered and messy; everything seemed to go in one ear and out the other. The pain was distracting, and his mind still felt fuzzy.

There was a D.A. meeting that night, as well. Padma told him he was being ridiculous, when he brought up wanting to go, but Morag shook her head.

"You really want to go?" she asked him. He nodded.

And they stepped inside the Room of Requirement several minutes later, him leaning pretty heavily on Morag, and Seamus let out a war whoop, and a cheer went up around the room. "_Forty-eight bloody hours," _Morag said loudly. "Most badass in the whole goddamn room."

Fay and Susan rushed over, looking oddly similar with their flushed faces and disheveled, tied-back hair. "We managed to finish one batch of Pain-killing Potion," Susan said. "I can't speak for the actual dosage, but we tested it and it's safe and properly made, so."

"As much as you can spare," Michael said, already tired from the walk to the Room and the fact that he was still standing upright. They rushed off to the other side of the room, and he sank into a spare armchair. Neville headed over. Even now, it still occasionally astounded Michael to see the change in Longbottom; he had dropped at least a stone, stubbly facial hair was peeking out, and there was an age and hardness in his eyes that had never been there before. He looked like a soldier, like a leader.

"That was a brave thing you did," Neville said, briefly shaking and clasping Michael's hand. "I'm sorry we couldn't get you out, Michael."

Michael shrugged, a motion which tugged at the welts on the upper part of his back, and winced as a result. "Not your fault."

"You want to stay here? In the Room?"

"Not yet," Michael said. "I'm gonna keep my head down for a bit, though."

"Of course." Neville nodded. "After that, I think we could all use a dose of caution." He glanced at Morag briefly; she bristled, presumably assuming his comment was directed towards her, but he shook his head. "I should tell you that what you did was risky as hell, but I would have done the same thing if I had found out about Rosemarie first, so I can't judge. Good job getting her out, MacDougal." They bumped hands. Morag perched on the arm of Michael's chair as Neville headed away.

"Back to business, I guess," Michael said, and for a brief moment, it almost seemed like things were normal.

* * *

It had been a little over a month.

The aftereffects of the Cruciatus had long since faded away, and his broken rib had mended, mostly thanks to Anthony. His back was still scarred, a mess of pink stripes that crisscrossed over each other, but moving no longer aggravated the marks. Anthony had said that there was no ointment or potion he knew of that could remove the scars from a Dark curse like that.

Physically, he was back to normal, but the past weeks had been tough.

Sleeping was difficult. He woke up sweating and screaming most nights, to the point where he started using a charm to soundproof his four-poster before he dropped off, just so he wouldn't disturb the other blokes. The memories, flashbacks, came nearly every night. Sometimes during the day, too, but in the light, surrounded by his people, it was a little bit easier to deal with.

Crabbe and Goyle had been utterly relentless. Miming vomiting, or rolling on the floor, nearly every time they saw him; one time Crabbe drew his wand in the corridor and Michael practically dive-bombed a group of third years on instinct to dodge away. Crabbe and Goyle had never previously bothered with him, as their bullying tended to be focused on the Gryffindors or younger students, but now he felt like a little boy harassed by schoolyard bullies with no way of stopping it.

Theodore and Daphne looked at him with an odd mix of coldness and pity that he hadn't thought was possible. They never said anything, weren't mean like Crabbe and Goyle, but even seeing them could send him into the midst of remembering those forty-eight hours, and that was just as bad.

As a whole, the D.A. hadn't done anything reckless since Michael's imprisonment. There had been no more fliers, no more graffiti, no more throwing various Wheezes into the Carrows' offices or classrooms to cause havoc. People had gotten detention since him, of course, but it was all individual. No more grand schemes or plans.

Morag came back to the Ravenclaw common room in the late afternoon limping and panting barely a week after those two days, eyes blazing. Michael knew that look, knew she had just come back from the dungeons.

"The hell did you do?" Su said.

Morag collapsed into a chair, wiping sweat off her forehead. "Called Alecto Carrow a fucking wanker."

"That was stupid," Padma said.

Morag threw up her hands. "Everything is stupid," she said.

Terry raised an eyebrow at her. "Were you trying to get detention?"

She sighed, throwing her legs over the arm of the chair. "I saw her, and I was incredibly furious and I just - I had to make it clear that what she did was not okay. I just had to say something."

"Were you defending my honor?" Michael said, almost laughing.

"Oh, fuck off, Corner." Morag stuck her finger up.

Kevin rolled his eyes at both of them. "MacDougal, does this mean you two are even now? Because if I have to hear 'it was my fault' one more time out of your mouth, I'll curse you myself."

Su snorted, shrugging. "Yeah, you're gonna have Neville and Seamus beat soon if you keep it up. Pretty sure they're the only ones who have you beat, in terms of numbers."

Padma crossed her arms. "Are you _keeping track? _Of how many times people get detention?"

"I mean, not _formally_," Su said.

"Excuse me," Michael said, "but I'm technically above Neville and Seamus, if we're counting. Forty-eight hours trumps all of this lot."

"You're all utterly ridiculous," Padma said.

Morag raised an eyebrow. "Everything is ridiculous," she said.

Keeping his head down was surprisingly easy, for a little bit. The Carrows avoided antagonizing him directly, which had surprised him; the first two weeks after, he had expected them to try and cause trouble, and had been on edge (more so than usual, that was) as a result, but they had mostly ignored him, and he didn't instigate. March began drawing to a close. Mandy started counting down the days until the Leaving Feast on a calendar. He liked hearing the numbers go down.

And for a while, it seemed like it could work. That he could stay quiet, stay out of trouble, for the next couple of months until they would be done. That nothing else would happen - that the Carrows had realized that forty-eight hours was above and beyond what could be reasonably called detention, and he had been through enough for the year.

But it was nearly exactly one month later, and that illusion shattered into pieces.

He got to Dark Arts class with a minute to spare, sliding into a seat between Morag and Anthony. He half-expected a jibe about his near-lateness, but neither Morag nor Anthony was focused on him; their lines of sight were directed toward the front of the classroom, where Amycus Carrow was standing next to a third-year Hufflepuff girl. She looked vaguely familiar. It took him a second to place her.

Rose Zeller. Susan had taken the girl under her wing and had begun showing her some rudimentary healing spells and potions; since the students' access to Madam Pomfrey post-detention had been restricted, a few students had taken it upon themselves to help. Anthony for Ravenclaw, Susan Bones for Hufflepuff, Fay Dunbar for Gryffindor. And Rose Zeller had been Susan's little protege; Susan had introduced her around to a few of the D.A. members.

He had no doubt what this was about. Not specifically, sure, but the scene played out in his mind. Rose had inevitably tried to steal potions or supplies of some kind, and gotten caught for it. There was no other reason that a third year would be standing at the front of the seventh-year Dark Arts classroom, looking absolutely terrified.

"She broke the rules," Amycus said. "An' since some o' ya have trouble wi' the rats, thought we could take a different approach to practicin' the Cruciatus." His gaze scanned the room. Michael tried to slump down behind Wayne Hopkins' large shoulders, hoping to avoid detection. It was a combined class, with all of the seventh years in the large room - there was no way every single one of them would take a turn, and surely some of the Slytherins would volunteer first -

"Corner," Amycus said. "Get down here."

Morag and Anthony both stared. He was pretty sure the whole class was staring. His heart pounded, threatening to beat out of his chest. He couldn't do it, couldn't raise his wand against a goddamn thirteen-year-old who had just been trying to help. But no more could he refuse; he could feel his skin grow clammy as he pictured the thought of ending up in that dungeon again, falling under that fucking curse once more -

"Go," Morag whispered under her breath, her surreptitiousness aided by Wayne's wide form right in front of them. "To the Room. I'll make sure nobody can follow."

He stood up, started walking out of the row of students. He could see Morag quietly draw her wand, and he sucked in a breath - what the hell was she planning on doing - but she was right, he had to go. He couldn't do this, not to Rose, not to himself, and -

At the end of the row, instead of turning towards the front of the classroom, he whipped around the other way, and raced for the door.

"Stop!" Carrow yelled. Michael reached the door, heard the faint cry of, "Stop him!" but by then he was out the door, halfway down the corridor, picking up speed. At this hour, everyone was in class, and the corridors were near-deserted.

He didn't make a conscious effort to stay in shape, but walking up and down multiple flights of stairs every day with a reasonably heavy bookbag for seven years had kept him more fit than he might have otherwise realized. He raced up a flight, taking them three at once, not wasting any time. He knew these corridors inside and out, knew the fastest way to the Room, and as he reached it, breathing heavily, he heard the blessed sound of silence; nobody was on his tail, at least not yet.

_I need the place where we can stay. I need the place where we can stay. I need the place where we can stay._

And the door appeared, and he slipped inside and sank down against the wall, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

* * *

There was a month. A quiet month.

He wouldn't say it was an easy time, because doing nothing meant that he spent far too much time worrying about the future, and what would happen to him - and to the other D.A. members gradually filling the Room - when it came time to leave Hogwarts. They spent a lot of time practicing, in the Room, because they were all going slowly stir-crazy and at least dueling gave them something to do.

Morag didn't show. Padma did, soon after her sister and Lavender Brown gave in and started hiding out. Terry and Anthony did, at the tail end of it all, barely days before everything started.

And then Harry Potter arrived, and as soon as he saw him Michael knew nothing would ever be the same again.

There was no time to strategize for the fight. The D.A. had talked plans and strategies, of course, preparing for the possible revolt or fight that could happen, but on the night of, there was no time to plan. There was just _go. _And underage students were shepherded out, but it was a suspiciously low number of them - they weren't roll-calling or trying to actively find people, after all, there was no time for that. He saw a couple fifth year Gryffindor girls duck out of the line and slip down a flight of stairs. He knew they wouldn't be the only ones.

As soon as it started, it was chaos.

He lost track of the other Ravenclaws almost instantly. Everyone was running, moving, using the staircases and corridors to their advantage, and it was impossible to stay in a proper group with anybody. It wasn't a battle, not in the old-fashioned traditional sense, of two opposing sides meeting in the middle and clashing; no, this was completely and utterly chaotic, no sense, no order, just life and death.

He rounded a corner, saw a Death Eater closing in on Demelza Robins, who was just barely holding him off; the Death Eater cast a curse, and a fireball exploded from his wand. Demelza cast _Protego _and tried to dodge at the same time, but the fire burst through her Shield Charm, knocking her to the ground, her robes igniting as she screamed.

"_STUPEFY!" _Michael engaged, but the Death Eater whirled, Michael's Stunner narrowly missing him.

Then, it was actually happening. The duel felt vastly different than practicing with the D.A., where everything had been controlled; they had limited themselves to a narrow range of minor hexes and jinxes, almost focusing more on dodging and defending than going on the offensive, just because of how dangerous it was to actually curse each other. Here, there were no limits. Green light missed Michael by centimeters.

He tried casting it back; the light emitted from his wand was a sickly yellow-green and far less bright than it should have been. The Death Eater laughed, and Michael took the moment of distraction to his advantage.

He aimed. Before this year, he had never thought of using the cutting spell on a person; it had always just been used, in his mind, to open packages and whatnot. But he remembered Morag, coming back to the common room months previously with her shoulders and collarbones slashed at. He remembered hacking at some particularly tough vines in Herbology, and how Professor Sprout had explained that it was possible to cause a deeper cut than just _Diffindo _could..."_Diffindo maxima!"_

The slash appeared across the Death Eater's throat, deep, bright, dark red, and the wand clattered out of his hands as he grabbed for his neck, sinking down to his knees as blood spurted from the wound. Michael kicked the wand away from him and rushed to Demelza, who was trying to beat out the last of the flames. He cast _Aguamenti, _extinguishing the last few licks of fire. She was conscious, but barely; along her right side, her robes had burned away in parts. Her arm was blackened. Her neck, part of her jaw, was bubbling. Michael felt bile rise in his throat. "Come on," he whispered, carefully levitating her through a nearby open doorway into a classroom. He maneuvered her under a desk. She stirred faintly.

He wished he could do something more, but he hadn't the faintest idea how to heal wounds like those. At least in there, she would be safer. He hesitated, looking back, and then rushed back out into the corridor, renewed anger rising. The Death Eater had fallen completely to the floor in a pool of blood, unmoving. Michael stared for a moment.

_I did that, _he thought dumbly. And then - _That's what you get for trying to kill a fifteen-year-old, you wanker._

He reached the stairwells, saw Mandy a floor above, dueling with another Death Eater right near the balcony, which was cracked and charred from a stray curse. He ran up, taking the stairs two at a time, his mind flashing back to his great escape from Dark Arts class. Running to avoid ending up in the dungeons once more, under the goddamn Unforgivable Curse - _NOT NOW, _he shouted in his mind, wildly shaking his head, throwing off the memory before the flashback could distract him.

Something Mandy had done had worked, because the Death Eater's left arm hung limp and useless at his side, mangled fingers poking out of the robe. Mandy advanced just as Michael cleared the stairwell. The Death Eater fell under her scarlet Stunner, his head cracking against the balcony as he collapsed to the floor.

Her round face was flushed; her robes were singed and torn. "Michael!" she gasped. Louder than he had heard her ever speak, really - and wasn't that a ridiculous thought to be having in the middle of a melee.

But her gasp hadn't been solely an exclamation at his presence, it had been a warning, and he whirled as three Death Eaters advanced up the stairwell, shooting curses off. Some of the wall behind him exploded into tiny shrapnel like shards of glass, tearing his robes and pricking his skin in dozens of different places. He hissed in pain, Stunned one of them - who fell down the entire flight of stairs, unconscious - and threw up a Shield Charm to protect both him and Mandy from a Blasting Curse that would have leveled them both.

And then they were both dueling, and they were still near the stairwell, near the balcony, and it happened completely on accident, and that was almost _worse. _

Mandy spun left to dodge a curse, and she slid and tripped - possibly the fault of some of the broken glass still scattered on the floor. She slammed into the balcony with her full weight, right into the already-damaged section, and it gave way, collapsing down beneath her to the floors below. She fell with it. Michael heard the thud. He didn't look, couldn't look, because now the other Death Eater was engaging him as well, and somehow he was managing to hold them off, and then Romilda Vane was there, taking one of them off his hands with a flurry of hexes, and all his rage boiled over because Mandy Brocklehurst was dead, that was his classmate, his friend, his Housemate for _seven years - _

"IMPERIO!"

The Death Eater stopped, placid, and Michael thought _Step off the balcony, _and he did, and there was a resounding thud, even louder than Mandy's body.

Romilda Vane stared at him as the Death Eater she had been dueling succumbed to a Stunner.

"Don't hold back," he said sharply. They parted ways, the noise of Mandy's death beating in his ears on repeat like a drum.

He took his own advice, after that.

* * *

And after it was over, he found Morag, sitting in the Great Hall. Her face was smudged with dirt and blood, and she has several healing cuts and scrapes, but she was alive, in one piece.

"Su and Kevin are gone," Morag said. "I saw it."

"Mandy," he said. "I was there."

She stared out across the Hall, her gaze almost burning a hole to the other side. She didn't seem to be looking at anyone in particular. It was a thousand-meter stare. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I killed four Death Eaters," she said. "The curse worked for me."

He didn't have to ask what she meant. He didn't have to ask her why, either. "I used the Imperius Curse," Michael said. "And I know I killed them, a few of them."

Her gaze focused back on him. She nodded. "How did it get to this?" It was a rhetorical question. Her gaze floated across the room once more. He thought once more of a volcano, building pressure inside for a dozen and a half years until one day there was a massive explosion that spewed fire, fire and lava and heat, and then fell silent and cold once more, utterly spent.

He thought of what the next days would be like; he thought of future weeks spent with not a single threat hanging over his head. He thought of days with no obligations, of days when there would be far too many hours to sit and replay the forty-eight hours spent as a prisoner.

The slow transformation from a teenager to a soldier had taken months, coming to a head in those two days of hell.

(And he wondered - what happens to soldiers when the war is over?)

* * *

_A/N: Honestly, this fic has been a long time coming. Arguably, writing this was specifically inspired by Michael's section in 'and the days pass', a post-war fic I wrote recently which included Michael's response to the trauma he experienced during DH. But Michael's story in DH has always been intriguing to me long before I wrote that fic. I've alluded to Michael's story in old Ravenclaw fics before my hiatus, but upon returning I finally decided to write this DH experience from his point of view. _

_Setting this in early March - along with many other details mentioned in this fic - is part of my headcanon. Many things regarding Hogwarts-in-DH were not specified by JKR, and I have chosen to expand on the few things we do know. All of the characters mentioned here are not OCs but minor characters; the only would-be exception is the first year, whose name was never specified in canon so I took the liberty of naming her. _

_I do write a lot of minor characters and DH era angst, so if you're interested, please check out my other stories, and if you enjoyed, please leave a review!_


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